


A Smile as Bright as Stars

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a small one-shot I wrote for ariadneslostthread, who is the Courfeyrac of my heart. This could fit into the Les Hommes de la Misericorde verse, but can also definitely be read alone. Have some Enjolras and Courfeyrac friendship cuddles everyone!</p>
<p>Summary: Courfeyrac receives a distressing letter from his parents, and Enjolras comes home to the rooms he shares with Combeferre to find Courfeyrac sprawled on their sofa, acting most unlike himself. Canon-era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Smile as Bright as Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadneslostthread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneslostthread/gifts).



Enjolras pulls out his key to the rooms he and Combeferre share, only to find the door unlocked, which is strange, considering that the two of them are practically religious about locking up when they leave. He pushes the door open tentatively, poised for a confrontation should there be someone attempting to rob them, but breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Courfeyrac sprawled out on their sofa.

“Used your key I see?” Enjolras asks, raising his eyebrows slightly and closing the door behind him.

“Mhmmm,” Courfeyrac says without looking up, his response muffled into the pillow his face is buried in.

“I thought you might have been a burglar,” Enjolras remarks, noting that Courfeyrac’s coat and hat are tossed carelessly aside on the table along with his cravat, and Courfeyrac simply doesn’t treat his clothing in such a way. “Given that Combeferre has the late shift at Necker this evening and won’t be home for a few hours.”

“Not a burglar,” Courfeyrac mutters, turning on his back to face Enjolras as he sits down, still grasping the pillow to his chest. “And you’re out of wine, what kind of heinous crime is that?”

“Oh, that’s quite right, we are out,” Enjolras says, noting the irritated, morose tone in Courfeyrac’s voice, a far cry from his usual bright tones that manage to warm Enjolras even on the most difficult, tiring days.

Usually, it is nearly impossible to keep from smiling when Courfeyrac is present, his lips curving up into what seems a permanent grin made of pure starlight.

Now, however, he frowns, green eyes downcast as he fiddles with the edges of his rumpled waistcoat.

“We may have some brandy,” Enjolras continues, giving Courfeyrac the opportunity to say what is bothering him before pressing for information. “I can pour a glass, if you like.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac replies, smiling ever so slightly in thanks. “Please.”

Enjolras nods, rising from the couch and going to the small kitchen area, pouring himself a very small measure and Courfeyrac a larger one before returning to the sitting room, glasses in hand.

“That’s barely any at all,” Courfeyrac says, eyeing Enjolras’ glass.

“You know I prefer wine to liquor,” Enjolras answers, taking a small sip, watching Courfeyrac intently. “But Combeferre has a taste for brandy.”

“Well then you shouldn’t be so remiss with your wine selection,” Courfeyrac says, pausing to take a large sip. “Particularly not when one of your dearest friends drops by unexpectedly and would simply adore a glass.”

“Well perhaps we wouldn’t run out so quickly if you brought wine with you when you drop by unexpectedly,” Enjolras teases lightly. “There is an indentation in the shape of your body on this sofa.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac whines, drawing out the name and tossing him a disdainful glance. “Can you not tell I am distraught?”

“I suspected as much,” Enjolras says, a smile quirking at his lips. “I was only waiting for you to tell me so.”

Courfeyrac opens his mouth, closes it again, and then speaks.

“You are nearly as sneaky as Combeferre in these matters,” Courfeyrac says, squinting his eyes in Enjolras’ direction.

“He is a quality teacher,” Enjolras quips. “Now are you going to tell me what’s the matter or are you going to continue mumbling into your pillow?”

“You are ever direct,” Courfeyrac says, tilting his head but there’s a fond glimmer in his eyes.

“So I’ve been told. You’re avoiding the question, which is most unlike you in these situations.”

Courfeyrac sighs, shoulders slumped. “I received a letter from my parents today.”

Enjolras starts a bit, surprised. Courfeyrac is famously close with his parents, and his two older sisters in particular; they come to Paris every so often, and Enjolras has seen how they dote on Courfeyrac, how he dotes on them.

“It is not usually cause for you to be upset at that,” Enjolras says, furrowing his eyebrows. “Was there ill news? Is someone hurt?”

“No,” Courfeyrac says, shaking his head. “No nothing like that. It’s only…my father has decided it’s time for me to start taking my role as the only son seriously.”

“But you are not even finished with your studies yet,” Enjolras interjects, confused. “And he knows your life is here, does he not?”

“As he put it,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing with his hands as if he’s writing. “It is time for me to put away my foolish and dangerous schoolboy revolutionary business, and that when I am finished with my studies I am to return home, marry, and continue on the de Courfeyrac name. He used the  _participle_  against me, Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac’s trying to joke, but Enjolras hears the underlying sadness cutting into his tone; Courfeyrac turns around, moving to lay his head in Enjolras’ lap, feet hanging over the edge of the sofa.

“I tried to keep my political activities from them,” Courfeyrac continues. “But last they were here my parents discovered some of the pamphlets we’d written, some I’d written myself, in my apartment.”

“I thought they had republican sympathies?” Enjolras asks, stroking Courfeyrac’s chestnut curls affectionately, concern growing heavier in the pit of his stomach.

“They do,” Courfeyrac says, sighing again, frustrated. “But not so far as they are happy with the idea that I am risking their name and my future over it. They simply do not understand what it means to me, that dream of the republic we all share. They do not see it as we do, laid out in front of us…” Courfeyrac trails off waving his hand in the air as if he cannot complete his sentence.

“The city all bathed in light,” Enjolras continues for him, voice soft and yet still reverberating with passion. “The people rising up to join us, their voices ringing out over the dawn: Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras sees he’s drawn out that starlight smile. It’s faded a bit from normal, but it’s there as he squeezes Enjolras’ hand. “Yes exactly that. You are ever an orator, my friend. More of a wordsmith every day.”

“Jehan inspires me,” Enjolras says, returning the squeeze. “My speeches and pamphlets improve all the time with his assistance. We are all sparks in the fire.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac responds, settling his head against Enjolras’ legs. “And they don’t seem to understand that either, the friendship I share with all of you. And they do not understand that I never had any wish to return home; if I were to marry I would desire to stay in Paris, it is the center of everything. I don’t think I’d mind marrying, eventually perhaps, but let my sisters have the family home, they enjoy the southern country a great deal more than myself.” Courfeyrac hesitates, then charges forward. “I cannot do what he wishes of me.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, a wave of empathy crashing over him; he hasn’t spoken to his own father in months, not since they’d argued furiously at Christmas, a variation on a theme of the issues between Courfeyrac and his father. He is, however, grateful for his mother’s visits, for his mother who understands his nature far better than his father ever had.

A pang of melancholy strikes Enjolras at thinking of his own father, of their former closeness when he’d been a child; he hopes that eventually M. de Courfeyrac will come to understand his son, hopes that Courfeyrac might not experience the same as himself.

“You seemed like the right person to speak to,” Courfeyrac admits, sitting up to finish off his brandy before lying back down. “Given your experience with this type of situation.”

“Hopefully it will not be as bad as that,” Enjolras says. “Your father seems a bit more open-minded than my own. My mother for instance, I know she worries incessantly over me, and I detest causing her pain, I detest it with everything within me, but she also knows I can do nothing else with my life, that Paris, my friends, our cause and our work…those are the core of my existence. Perhaps your father will see that. Or your mother might persuade him if she is so inclined.”

“I do not take pleasure in worrying my parents either,” Courfeyrac says. “They seem to think I do not realize what I am getting involved in, but I do. I know full well exactly the risks we take every day, and I don’t regret it for a moment. But you are ever the optimist, Enjolras. Your words cheer me a bit. Your simple presence cheers me, in fact.”

“I try,” Enjolras says, smiling fully himself now as Courfeyrac’s eyes start fluttering closed.

“You succeed,” Courfeyrac mumbles sleepily, voice thick with exhaustion as he pulls Enjolras down fully onto the couch, and somehow, all tangled together, they fit.

It’s weirdly comfortable, but it’s likely because it happens so often, sleeping like this, Enjolras muses. The only thing missing is Combeferre and their usual pile of either textbooks or in-progress pamphlets and ink.

Soon, both of them are fast asleep, and a few hours later when Combeferre arrives home, he drapes a blanket over them, nudging their sleeping forms over to take his place beside them. 


End file.
